


Synchronicity

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, alternate universe-canon-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2410994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weird, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synchronicity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [divingforstones (punting)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=divingforstones+%28punting%29), [paperscribe (Casablanca)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=paperscribe+%28Casablanca%29), [wendymr (the feather boa I cut in this)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=wendymr+%28the+feather+boa+I+cut+in+this%29), [pandabob (James-Scarlett offspring)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pandabob+%28James-Scarlett+offspring%29).



> This is a weird fic. Over the summer I kept seeing things I had already written (but not posted) showing up in other people's work (which was posted)--see the people to whom this is gifted. (Sorry it is not a prettier or better gift. It was going to disappear entirely if I didn't post it from the drafts folder. I wanted to somehow acknowledge the experience and this was the result.) 
> 
> It'll go away shortly. It was--well, weird.

Lewis was in the woodwork again. 

James stared at the top of his desk, clearly seeing the contours of Lewis' face in the laminated whorls of fake oak. Lewis wore a slight, knowing grin. 

Hathaway leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his face with his hands and then dropping them into his lap. He was tired, that's all. Pareidolia. The mind trying to make sense of patterns. Faces in the woodwork. The man in the moon. Jesus’ image in a slice of toast.

A weird bit of synchronicity, though.

He returned to his computer screen, the report on the apparent accidental drowning on the Cherwell. Student had been drinking in addition to having narcotics in his system. Pitched over the side of his punt while vomiting. His mates were too drunk to pull him out in time.

It was the reference to a ‘punt’ that made Hathaway sit up. He'd noticed a poster advertising punting tours the day before. Heard a woman at the market bemoaning the loss of a bottle of wine she'd lashed to a punt. Had run across a random post-it note with the word ‘punt-Cherwell’ in Lewis' handwriting completely unrelated to the case. Had watched a bit of telly that happened to show a punt on rollers on the Cam: with such an unseasonably cold summer, punt hires and tours were down.

Punt, punt, punt. And now this.

Weird, is what it was. The odd coincidence. Seeing the same odd line you've written appear in someone else's work and knowing there is no possible connection. No copying, no looking over someone’s shoulder, no mind-reading. A memo, a trope, a zeitgeist. A meme.

What's more, it was the third bit of synchronicity that week. 

Jung interpreted synchronicity as two heterogeneous world-systems, the causal and acausal, interlocking and interpenetrating each other for a moment in time. The synchronistic universe was beginning-less in that it was being created right now, which is why Jung called it “an act of creation in time.”

The whole idea of ‘penetration’ and ‘act of creation’ in the same framework made him think of the words 'mind fuck' which is what he'd heard it called at university.

The people who called it that wore aluminum foil hats at parties. Used words like ‘multiverse’ and ‘wave particle duality.’

The other weird moment had to do with Lewis and Humphrey Bogart. Earlier over the weekend, he'd helped Lewis pulling weeds at the allotment and had noticed Lewis' scruffy cheek and the hat. The battered fedora that Lewis had borrowed because he'd forgotten his own. The way that Lewis had kicked it back with a knuckle and angled his body—pure Bogart. He had nearly offered Robbie a cigarette. 

Afterward, they got take away from the same Thai place they always went to. For the first time Hathaway noticed the statue of a black falcon behind the counter. As they walked back to Robbie’s, he saw a travel book display at Blackwell’s: “Travel the American High Sierras.” And when they got back to Robbie's—

"Our Lyn sent us _**Casablanca**_ on DVD. Val and I are planning to watch it tonight.”

A casual comment. So very wrong.

Over the last two days, he kept seeing Lewis' face in silvered tones wreathed in fog on a black tarmac, the whirr of jet engines and approaching sirens in the background. Lewis, just Lewis, staring into his eyes.

Why was he thinking of his sergeant as Ingrid Bergman?

"You okay?" Lewis bustled in, setting sandwiches on their desks, and shaking the rain off his top coat as he hung it up. "Bleeding monsoon outside. Cold, too. Can't believe it's near August." 

"Cheers," said Hathaway, unwrapping a sandwich, still uneasy from the sense of déjà vu, the glitch in the matrix. He glanced at his computer screen then and saw numbers crawling up the sides in eerie imitation of a film he'd seen a decade ago.

"Do you ever have moments where you think you've seen something before?"

Lewis bit into his sandwich. "Déjà vu? Oh, yeah." He smiled slightly. "Cognitive associations. Don't look so surprised. I do read on occasion, you know, sir."

"Jung?"

"Nah. I'm not young, that's why I read."

"I meant—oh." Hathaway smirked, his smile fading. "They say learning another language is good for keeping your mind sharp."

"Sharper than yours at times, not recognizing a pun, sir. Nah, my mind's fine, ta. Don't need crosswords or quotes or language lessons to muck up the works."

Hathaway shuffled papers into a folder. "Walking would be good—"

"—So's swimming," said Lewis, staring out the window at the sheets of rain. It felt warm and close in the office, the faint smell of petrichor from raindrops on a dirty window ledge. "Lyn says the cold has killed their garden. Probably washed it all away too. Her neighbor says it's because Mercury's in retrograde."

"What?"

"The planet Mercury is in retrograde. Sign of trouble."

Hathaway frowned and then schooled his face into a more receptive expression. Maybe he needed to pay attention here, maybe this was the first sign of dementia.

Lewis was so much older, should be retired, really. 

No, wait. What would he do without Lewis? He’d never thought of his sergeant as old. Never.

Whatever Lewis had to say, it should be met with kindness rather than derision. 

He tilted his head, signaling Lewis to go on.

"Mercury appears to spin backwards two or three times a year," Robbie said, talking around his sandwich. "Supposed to cause all kinds of problems with communication and weather."

"Thought that was sun spots.”

"Opens portals. Causes, you know, not déjà vu, but those odd coincidences where everything lines up. Like tumblers in a lock, all lined up so that once it happens, something is opened up."

So he's seen it too. "Do you think these coincidences have meaning?" Hathaway's gaze was caught by a lovely woman in a red dress walking past the office. 

Lewis glanced up at the woman and then refocused on Hathaway. He angled his head, considering, then shrugged, and went back to the papers on his desk.

As good a non-answer as any, Hathaway supposed. He glanced at window, rivulets in a pattern eerily similar to the march of random numbers on his monitor. Climate change was behind the weather. They'd probably discover a red or blue pill was behind the computer glitches and women wearing red.

There was a recent photo of Val on Lewis’ desk. Lovely woman, surrounded by Mark’s kids, Lyn’s kids. If Lewis hadn’t been so involved with his family, he might have made detective inspector by now.

Hathaway glanced at the framed photos on his own desk. Twin sons and Fiona, who looked hard rather than pretty in the photo. She’d been almost affectionate this morning, but then one of the boys had burst into the room bringing the dogs in with him. Landed on the bed and put ‘closed’ to any idea of intimacy.

He didn’t even like the dogs. He’d always wanted a cat. Fiona was allergic.

Fiona had given up her career when she found out she was having twins. She hadn’t wanted children in the first place; they’d only gotten married because it was the right thing to do, at least in his mind. She had other ideas. It wasn’t what either of them wanted, certainly. She wasn’t happy and he knew she was having another affair. She was always more willing to have sex with him when she was seeing someone else. 

He was surprised it didn’t bother him more.

He hoped they wouldn’t divorce. He was already helping to support the boy he’d had with Scarlett. One night stand. Attaway, Hathaway.

Three kids.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Weird feeling, synchronicity.

None of this seemed right, somehow. 

In fact, it seemed—suddenly—very, very wrong.

“Sir,” he began, out of some habit pulled from the ether, and mentally kicked himself. It was the second time he’d done that today.

“No, said Lewis coldly. “Not ‘Sir’ and I’ll thank you not to say it again. Belittling me for not getting that promotion, that’s what it is. It’s not like you to take out your anger about your wife’s indiscretions on me. Not done. Not by you, not by anyone. I can report you for harassment. Sir.”

Hathaway’s eyes widened. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Like having a child with Scarlett. Like having children with Fiona. Like—women. What was he doing with a woman in his bed? Like the ghosts he saw lingering at the corner of his vision. Like punting. Like _Casablanca._ Like remembered snatches of guitar music—had he written it? Heard it? Where was it coming from?

Why? 

There would certainly be a reason for the glowing crack opening up in the wall behind Lewis. The thundering words, "All hail the glow cloud" and the word ‘nightvale’ resounding through the office. The hiss of static instead of the steady patter of rainfall. The sound of a TARDIS.

Hathaway stood up. Something was very wrong. The edges of his vision blurred as time and space folded.

"Inspector!" shouted Lewis, reaching over his desk.

Hathaway lept toward Lewis—

\--and landed in a heap on the floor.

James woke up, sweating in an ice cold room, sprawled on the floor, in track pants and t-shirt. His vision was blurred, his glasses were on the nightstand on Robbie's side of the bed in front of the photo of their grandkids. 

Their beautiful grandkids.

He got to his knees and rested his head on the edge of the bed.

"Morning prayers?" said Robbie from the doorway.

"You're funny," James said, putting on his glasses. "Love of my life, why is it so cold in here?"

Robbie was in his garden get-up—today was an allotment day. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at James on his knees. "Someone wanted a bit of cuddle last night. Bit warm for that, so I turned on the air. That’s why we got that infernal thing."

"There's frost on the inside of the windows." James rested his head on the bed and took a deep shaky breath. "We're in the middle of a heat wave," he said, remembering. 

"Nightmares?"

After nearly seven years sharing a bed, Lewis had seen James in tears, on the floor, shaking like a leaf, vomiting, sleepwalking, screaming, shouting, and occasionally all of these things at once.

Robbie was a patient man. A kind man. He never asked why. Usually James wouldn't know what to tell him. 

"It was horrible, Robbie. We weren't together. We only worked together, we weren't together."

He didn’t tell him that in his dream Robbie was a sergeant; living happily with his wife, children, grandchildren.

Robbie rested his hand first on James' head, then trailed down, cupping James’ cheek with his palm. "I made coffee. Iced coffee."

James' smile grew. "Fancy."

"I would do anything for you, pet."

"Since I'm on my knees again—"

"Answer's still no."

"Lyn mentioned it again the other night on the phone," James rose, painfully aware of the alarming popping noises his knees made. "And for the record, just now, you said you'd do anything for me."

Robbie smiled an impish half smile. James saw him run a tongue against his back tooth. _He missed the dentist appointment I set up for him. Damn the man. And he is reading my mind now because his tongue stops moving and the corner of his mouth curls up._ Lewis' eyes crinkled with good humor.

"Today's compost day at the allotment." Robbie bit back a chuckle, eyes dancing. "You can ask me again, on your knees and all, out there. Like as not I'll say yes because it'll be a story to tell."

James sighed softly, suppressing a frown, and realized suddenly that he's gone about it all wrong for years. "Robbie. On Tuesday next I'm taking the day off. You need to go to the dentist, I need new glasses, we'll take care of all of our errands and then, at the end of the day, we'll get married. No fanfare, no fuss, no family, no friends. Just us."

"Sounds good." Robbie grinned. 

James shook his head, disbelieving. "Excuse me? What changed? I've been asking for seven years. Calluses on my knees from asking, Robbie."

"Might have gotten those some other way—"

James snorted back a laugh.

"I've had the fancy wedding, James."

"I haven't. Don't you think I'm entitled to a fancy wedding? Not that I want one any longer, but I made the music playlist years ago, wrote the ceremony.” The corner of his mouth quirked up as he remembered. “I even wrote you a song."

"I know. Played it at our five year anniversary." Lewis smiled indulgently. "Do you feel different, now that I've made you the happiest man in the world?"

"Happiest man in the world? No, I'm wondering if I can get the day off without alerting Jean because you know—"

"—Right, we don't want the whole nick there. That's the problem, see. Everyone wanting to be there. That and the pool."

"They gave that up years ago."

Lewis nodded and rubbed his neck. "That's right, I remember. Laura won."

"Laura won because she knew before I did. Might have told me you loved me first."

Lewis grinned. "Didn't know myself till she pointed it out." He sighed. "She and Franco will want to be there, I expect."

"And Jean. Julie and Gurdip.” James sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm just thankful that I don't have to get on my knees again.” He rubbed them. “We should go to dinner after, though. Not takeaway. And I'd like a photo of the two of us other than the one—"

"I like the photo of us in the office."

"We look terrible."

"Speak for yourself, man. I look fantastic."

"You always look fantastic to me, Robbie. Always."

Lewis grinned knowingly. "I know that look. But it's allotment day and that can wait."

James fell back on the bed. "What is it, fourteen years of courting and sharing a bed? Heartless. We've just become engaged."

"Aye, and we've a crop to get in."

James took off his glasses, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He managed a straight face as he put the glasses back on his nose and pushed them up with a finger. "Crop?" 

"Crop. Coffee's ready."

"Seriously, what changed? Why did you finally say yes?" He sat up.

"Said you wanted us to get married. Didn't ask. Figured that the day you didn't get down on your knees because they bothered you would be the day you'd be old enough. Always thought I’d be robbing the cradle otherwise." He gave James a measured look. 

"I did ask you, though, on my knees.”

“You were already on the floor. Not the same thing.”

“If you had said you were waiting for my knees to give way, I would have taken up skateboarding." James paused, and took Robbie’s hand. “Why now?” he whispered.

“You didn’t propose.” Robbie sighed. “It’s hard to explain. When Val and I got married, I didn’t get down on one knee—not at first. It was an agreement, more like. We knew we couldn’t be apart so there was no point in me asking. ‘Course I did, later, so she’d have a story to tell the kids. But at first, we knew.” 

Robbie covered James’ hand with his own, as he continued. “I was certain about you and me. No question in my mind. I’ve been waiting for you to realize that you didn’t need to ask. That I’d always be here. No matter what.”

James stared at their hands. “I was hurt that you said no. I asked twenty eight times.”

“No—twenty -nine. That time—“

“—Right, right. We were tied up and there was a gun to your head. I wasn’t on my knees then.”

“I was about to be shot!”

James smirked. “You survived.”

“I know. Look, I was hurt you felt you had to ask. Didn’t like the idea of you begging me, didn’t like--you know.”

“You wanted to be the one to ask.”

“No—I just wanted it understood that asking me wouldn’t be necessary.”

James smiled that shy half smile reserved only for the love of his life. “Understood.” He rubbed the knuckles of Robbie's hand with his thumb. _Our hands have grown old and wrinkled together, soft in spots, callused in others, spotted, crisscrossed with tiny scars from plants and papercuts._ He squeezed Robbie's hand. "Now if something happens to me you'll have something to draw on besides your pension."

"I've got my inheritance from Morse—"

"For the grandchildren. We agreed—"

"—And the allotment. Never go hungry."

"Five misshapen carrots and a couple of zucchini."

"Told you we should have planted tomatoes this year." Lewis squeezed his hand and left the room, shaking his head. 

"We plant tomatoes every year." Hathaway called after him. He dropped back onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling. Waiting.

Robbie came back into the room. "Probably too hot now to work outside today." He sat down on the edge of the bed.

James smiled and stretched. "It's nice and cool in here."

"Maybe even too cool in here." He stretched out beside James.

James leaned up on an elbow, grateful that all was right in his universe now. He reached out and trailed a fingertip along the inside of Robbie’s arm. His voice was deep and sultry. "I know just the thing to warm you up, Robbie.”


End file.
